Poet's Musings

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

As If

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As If

As if the buzzing, built-up hive
called the world were a fabricated
facade someone could unfasten and lift
to expose operational guts (the real
engineering), dreams sometimes seem

so right that in the midst of them,
you think, "Yes, it's a dream, and
I'm sleeping, but this is how things
are as they are," and the dream, a
low-budget movie of the highest
quality, has just shown you a thing

or two about how to interpret
a thing or two, but the dream itself
requires no interpretation, any more
than a sharpening stone needs sharpening.

Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Gray Weaver

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Gray Weaver

The gray weaver dated
the grim reaper for a while.
She liked the fabric
of his hooded cloak,
instructed him not
to bring the scythe
with him when they dined
out. The reaper admitted,
"All of this, this life-activity,
bores me. I love death." She

wove him a pale gray cloak. It
softened his image. He looked like
a cloud that held a harvest tool,
nothing to worry about--honest!
But he said he couldn't accept
the gift. They stopped seeing
one another. That was many
a reaping, many a gray rug ago.

Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

I'm Glad I Never

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I'm Glad I Never . . .

...Built missiles.
Ate whale meat.
Purchased a boat of any kind.
Went to law school (LSAT score: 666).
Shot myself with a nail-gun.
Killed a bear.
Played polo.
Became a dictator.
Climbed Mt. Everest.
Believed Plato.
Joined the Mob.
Skated naked.
Mined coal.
Dodged the draft.
Got drafted (draft number: 007, not kidding).
Mined coal.
Owned a coal mine.
Drank anti-freeze.
Started a riot.
Called anyone the N-word.
Joined the Navy.
Believed Reagan.
Lied about where I was from.
Shot heroin.
Became a pornographer.
Caved in.
Went to Idaho that one time.
Went to Berkeley that one time.

Copyright 2010

Places We've Gone

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Places We've Gone After We've Made Love

Nowhere.
Stockholm.
The movies.
Ephesus.
A restaurant.
A cafe.
A bar.
The city dump.
A supermarket.
Outside.
To sleep.
Inside.
The Post Office.
Florence.
Sacramento.
A beach.
A kitchen.
Mobile.
A bathroom.
A museum.
A roof.
A swimming pool.
An ocean.

Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

Lombardy Poplar

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Lombardy Poplar

In a light breeze, the ease
with which branchings and leaves
of a single Lombardy poplar move,
each in a different direction
and way, and how the tree becomes
an infinitely syncopated whole that
later and clumsily we'll call tremble,

naturally defy math and digital
imitation because they won't hold still
for a binary moment or repeat itself,

so poplar fascinates beyond words but also
coaxes words, and there it is, the poplar,
the one poplar, the one, and there it goes,
and now a crow caws. Twice.

Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

So Much For Experience

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So Much For Experience

Is experience too expensive?
In those days, I knew so little,
and now I know even less.
I feel like a door-to-door
salesman who sells doors,
knocking on locked examples
of what I try to sell.

Life's an elaborate experiment
with no hypothesis and with a
volatile concoction of methods.
Once you get the results, you
move on to Heaven, I gather,
and make your report--angels
roaring with laughter:
apparently this stuff never
gets old. . . .

I passed two women on the street.
The one smoking a cigarette was
saying to the other, "Well, if
it's one thing I've learned from
experience, it's . . .". I'd
walked too far past to hear the rest.

Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom